Lemon Kisses
by MourningDove
Summary: Incest, non-con, slash. Draco thinks about Pansy, Pegasus, and asparagus.
1. Soduh

Author's Note: This deals with child-abuse, non-con, and sentences that refuse to end. The characters used to belong to J.R.R. Rolling, and I doubt she wants them back after what I've done to them. I blame this ficlet on my medication and final papers. Enjoy.  
  
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I'd make a pretty good dictator, I think. I pay attention. I read fast. Lots of reading to do, as a dictator. Dictator sounds a lot like dickhater. I could be one of those, too. Don't like dicks. Not a very graceful organ, is it, all wrinkled and vulnerable, hard and going where it really shouldn't.  
  
I had Sprite today. A muggle drink. Clear and bubbly, with a lemon stuck on the lip of the cup. I sucked on it, had the taste of it on my lips the rest of the day, and I wanted to kiss someone. Kiss someone who had tasted my Sprite and I hadn't, someone who wanted to share it with me and kissed me sweet and tasted my lemon lipstick and laughed.  
  
When I am dicktator, I will make Sprite illegal. Maybe all muggle drinks. All the Soduhs, anyway. They make you think thoughts that shouldn't be thought about, like kissing and soft pink lips and messed up brown hair and emerald eyes. I wonder if he likes lemons. I wonder if I like lemons.  
  
I can hear a cricket. I don't know how it survived this long. They're not really winter bugs. Are any bugs winter bugs? How do bugs survive if they all die in the cold? How are there enough left to reproduce come Spring? I wish it would be quiet.  
  
"You shame your family, Draco."  
  
Sometimes I don't want to be a dicktator. Sometimes I want to play quidditch forever, and ungel my hair because I won't have to worry about not looking like my father because he won't matter, and I'll feel it whipping against my ears and in my eyes and I'll laugh and swear and get Harry to cut it for me, and then laugh more because he'd do a piss-poor job of it, and have to go to a professional hair-cutters and get them to fix it for me because as sweet as Harry's effort was, I will have an image to uphold.  
  
Other times, I want to brew potions and live in Snape's quarter's at Hogwarts, and glare at the students and grade their tests too harshly but always make sure none of them ever fail. Snape makes tea that smells like roses and tastes like mint honey, tea that warms me up and doesn't fade 'till after the healing potions have taken hold. He has a large couch that I make my bed every other Sunday night, and I never say thank you.  
  
"Pathetic."  
  
Maybe when he was younger, he wanted to be an auror. Father, that is, not Snape. Snape wanted to be father, when he was younger. Snape wanted to have father. He doesn't anymore.  
  
Maybe father wanted to be a journalist and travel to far-away places and get sunburns and tan unevenly and tease mother into a bikini and gaze at her while she read a book underneath the umbrella as the sun faded away over the waves.  
  
Maybe father wanted to tease Snape into a bathing suit and oh dear, that brings an unpleasant image to mind. So no swimsuit for Snape. It's hard to imagine him in anything other than his school robes and the ones he borrows from Father for the death eater functions. Not that I know about that, or about how blood won't show up on them, how they're never reused and the house elves burn them in the kiln behind the house. It smells like dye and blood, on those days.  
  
"Are you listening, boy?"  
  
I could be a mediwizard, and learn to heal the bruise on my face from where he's going to hit me for not paying attention, I could be a death eater and hit him back, I could turn spy and Snape would heal it for me, except if I did that, of course, I'd call him Severus. Maybe I'll be Harry's, and run away and never come back.  
  
I could leave and never come back, never come back here to father and his fucking cane and the flesh fertilizing the roses and mother hiding in her rooms and laughing all the fucking time and  
  
"No! No I'm not listening to you, no I don't care, no I don't want you to stop, stop."  
  
When I was little, I did not know my parents. The house elves had complete control over me and that is why I hate them.  
  
When I was little, I read story books about Cinderella and Snow White and Rapunzel and I didn't know I couldn't be a damsel in distress, didn't know I had no Prince Charming, didn't know what to say when Father threw the filthy mudblood trash into the fire before I'd finished reading Hansel and Gretel and found out if they got rescued, too. I still don't know. I'm afraid to ask.  
  
"Are you insane, Draco? Letting him do that to you?"  
  
Am I insane? Letting him do this to me? Am I insane? I want to be a dickhater and fly like rose-scented ash away from my home and my father and the house elves who stopped healing my wounds after I turned ten and father forbid them to and now I have a network of scars on my body--all below the neck, of course, and none on the arms.  
  
I wonder what Harry would say about them. If he would lick a trail down the long one that stretches from my nipple to my hip, if his breath would raise goose bumps as the cool air rushed over after it, if I would shudder as he bit softly into my thigh and cry as he told me that I was perfect and if he would cry when I kissed him back and told him he didn't have to save me.  
  
"Get up! Get back up! Malfoys are not weak, and you are a Malfoy!"  
  
The library is full of pictures of Malfoys. A few of them talk, one of them smiles, none of them are happy. They are all strong, ruthless, successful, dead.  
  
Father's portrait hangs above the fireplace in his study. He stares at himself while he works. Whenever I walk in, the portrait licks his lips and winks at me.  
  
I don't have a portrait, yet. According to father, I'll get one when I'm worthy. When I'm worth it. When I'm stronger and faster and taller and tanner and stop crying when he fucks me and stand back up after he curses me and stop yelling at him when he hits mother and stop yelling at mother when she laughs when he hits me and  
  
Snape makes me tea and lets me sleep on his couch and he only asked me the one time, are you insane and then he never asked again and I don't remember what my answer was.  
  
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Things you can say in your review: Do you want me to write a second chapter? Maybe kidnap a plot-line and stick it in there somewhere? What is your opinion on lemon kisses? Anything you'd like to see me write that I haven't, story requests, etc.?  
  
Thank you for your time!  
  
--Dov 


	2. Love

A/N: Hi! I can't believe you all stuck around for the second chapter. You rock. Just a side note: if you sign in before you review, I'll jump over to your author page and return the favor once I get some free time. Thank you!  
  
Esoterical Angel: Thanks for giving this story its first review! You're now its Godmother, and thus I can give it to you on weekends when it's being cranky. I looked up F.L. Block on-line and her books look really interesting--I'll have to read some over the summer. Thank you!  
  
Anon: Thank you for that wonderful review, whoever you are! I hope the second chapter doesn't let you down!  
  
Jeannie1: Your review made me do the happy dance. While sitting. And eating cereal. Needless to say, there are now Cheerios all over my desk. Hmm...I wonder what Draco would think of Cheerios...  
  
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J'adore moi. I know French. Moi moi moi sounds like little polite kisses on the air beside Pansy's cheeks, when the Parkinsons are over for dinner and small talk must be made about weather and business and the stupidity of muggles.  
  
I think our fathers think we don't know what they do. Maybe they want to pretend they don't do what they do.  
  
"Hello, Joseph!" The Parkinson's are Christian, and so I will not marry their daughter. The Malfoy family has been pagan since--long enough that it doesn't matter, and I will marry no cross-bearing disciple. All of my followers will follow me and only me, the only one to forgive their sins will be me, I will kiss them and forgive them and caress their faces and nod like I know what's going on and then let them go.  
  
I will always love them selflessly and let them go, because that way they will be grateful and regretful and they will owe me. I am Slytherin, I am willing to do anything to attain my goals, sneaky and underhanded and sometimes, honesty's the best way but not often, and sometimes they don't know I'm telling the truth because I lie so well and those times cut me with their suspicion, and I check afterwards but there are never any new scars, and I wonder if I have a second body, a second body covered with their secret smiles and McGonagal's glare and Snape's sad eyes.  
  
"Hello, Lucius." Joseph has a low, mournful voice and shaky hands with prominent veins, when I shake it as I am required to do it feels like if I pinched the skin and pulled it would slide off of him and onto the floor, and beneath it--I don't know what there would be. No blood. No flesh. Fat, then. Fat and gristle, yellow tendons and lungs that will gasp once, twice, choking on his own juices the third time and collapsing wet and sticky onto the rug that I was slapped for spilling juice on when I was two.  
  
I'll wrap him up in the rug and drag it outside by myself, without using any spells because sometimes physical exertion and contact and the smell of him wafting out each end of the roll is better than the smooth feel of a thin wand. I don't like wands. I always feel like mine's about to slide out of my fingers, wilt and drop to the ground like an old man's...you-know- what, and how embarrassing would that be?  
  
I'll deposit Mr. Parkinson and the rug in the middle of the front courtyard (surrounded by a looping drive, even though no one drives in cars or carriages to get to the Manor anymore, it's all floo or portkey) and I'll get gas-oh-lean and make a match, watch the flame spread over him and hear it hiss as it gets to the good bits and smell it ghastly and unforgivable and summon the house elves to put it out before it catches the house on fire.  
  
I resist the urge to pull his skin off, however, so none of that is relevant. I don't suppose I am, either. Irrelevant. Makes me want to laugh, although I don't. Superfluous. Redundant. Heir.  
  
Father speaks and Mr. Parkinson moans his reply, Mother and Mrs. Parkinson-- first name of Lara, I do believe--insert appreciative exclamations and laughter at the appropriate junctures. Lara giggles; Mother does not. The air is still, and Pansy winks at me across the table like I didn't already know she expects me to make out with her as soon as our parents retire to the parlor and forget that we aren't five years old anymore and the house elves can't boss us around.  
  
Nine courses, tonight. The grilled asparagus is especially good, taut against my teeth and slippery on my tongue. The wine is horrid, as I always think it is. Father has served red wine since I told him I thought it looked like blood. Once, he did serve me blood. I puked twice while drinking it, but he made me finish it all. He never told me whose it was.  
  
Pansy winks again, and giggles into the mango she's slicing into smaller pieces. Pansy is an oversexed hunting dog who detects the scent of money and male, and then gives chase. Her dress floats around her when she stands like a tissue waving in the breeze. I know the thin body underneath, the silver watch I have her and the hemp bracelet around her ankle, origin unknown.  
  
The door to the drawing room closes with the slide of wood on wood and I offer my hand to Pansy as escort. Her name used to make me laugh; make me bitter. Pansy, pansy, pansy. She sets her hand on my elbow and we make our way out of the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood, muffled on the carpet--there's the stain on the corner, crushed under the spike of her sole.  
  
We sit on the courtyard, the wind playing with her dress. "School starts in a week." I will trade one stone castle for another, one stern teacher for five. I cannot wait.  
  
"Yes." Nothing more is said, nothing more to say. They leave laughing politely and it's dark outside, they leave us three Malfoys standing in the foyer like statues. We come to life when we see others, or if you put a sickle in the slot. Put a sickle in our slot. Father heads upstairs, steps slow and even and out of sync with the grandfather clock.  
  
When I can no longer hear him I head to my room. Mother stands by the door, humming. It's a lullaby she used to sing to me, before.  
  
My windows are big enough to jump out of. My bed could contain a six-person orgy. The wall-to-wall carpet could be sold for enough to buy the Weasleys a new house. I've never seen their old house. I bet it's big and sprawling, with lots of windows and a huge lawn with flowers.  
  
I bet they eat dinner and supper together every day at one big table, and don't ask for things to be passed to them, I bet they just reach across for it. I bet it's warm in their house, and their carpets don't match and sometimes they share more than they want to but they never complain.  
  
I bet they love each other.  
  
When I was younger, I asked my father do you love me. Do you love me, father. I had blood running down my thighs and was following the pattern on the ceiling with glazed-over eyes. His breathing was the only other sound in the room, that and the rustle of his clothes as he put them back on.  
  
"I buy you everything you need--tutors, flying instructors, new books and brooms, there's always food on your table and warm clothes to wear. Of course I love you. What a stupid question."  
  
Everything my father gives has a price tag attached. I'll give you tutors if you always get the highest marks. I'll get you a broom if you always win. I'll give you food as long as you're always slender and I can feel your hip bones under my fingers and count your ribs. I'll love you if you never tell.  
  
One day, I will have children of my own. I have to carry on the Malfoy line, I am the only heir. If I die, the fortune will sit in our vault until the end of time. If we can't have it, no one else will. Father gives to charity, and I expect I will, too. Once I have control of the fortune, once I am in control.  
  
I'll sit in his office and put my feet up on his desk. I'll put his portrait in the darkest corner of the library I can find, and cover it in moldy cloth. Father keeps a diary, as do I. I think I'll read it. Perhaps I'll burn it, instead. Maybe I shall do both.  
  
"Do you love me, Father?"  
  
"Don't be absurd," and he kisses my neck. "You have such an imagination." I wonder what I could dream up that would be worse than this. Worse than the sound of sweaty skin smacking against sweaty skin and the bed springs groaning and mother's humming again outside, my windows that are big enough to jump out of are open and the moon shines in.  
  
I will invent a spell to fly, I imagine. I will have no need for brooms or pegasus'. I will twist out from underneath my father and I won't grab a robe before jumping out the window and saying the magic word. I'll fly naked and dripping blood and cum, fly until I can't anymore and hopefully I'll be very high by then.  
  
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